A Complicated Relationship
by EdwardClone13
Summary: History is filled with many twists and turns, and nations grow and change with every tide. Even the names of a nation can change in the flow of time. Hatred waxes and wanes, and friendship can only go so far. The relationship between nations and their people, and to teach other, change as quickly as day-by-day. This is a story of two nations, and their struggles.


**Characters: **Republic of Venice [North Italy] and the Ottoman Empire [Turkey], guest appearance young!Greece

**Pairing: **None

**Words:** 3794 words

* * *

"..Here we are again."

The words were spoken by a calm, deep voice that betrayed no emotion as a young boy, no older than ten, slowly entered the lavishly decorated study. The room looked more like a lounge with all of the pillows and blankets lying everywhere, but the boy paid the furnishings no mind. The child was exceedingly small for his age, maybe a metre and a quarter height, at his absolute tallest estimate. He wore a simple white tunic with matching breeches, skin a considerable contrast by being deeply tanned from many long months at sea. His rich mahogany tresses spilled out from beneath the edges of a floppy white beret, one curl standing out and defying gravity near the left of his cherubic face the same way the boy had defied everyone's expectations and became the most powerful sea-power in the Mediterranean. His expression was one of cold suspicion, a sight that seemed odd for such a young face and a small body.

"Ve, _sì_. Again." The Republic of Venice agreed readily enough, moving to stand at the edge of the low table serving as a desk near the middle of the room, scrunching his nose up at the smell of burning incense that was wafting through the air. As he approached the table the torchlight reflected off the dagger strapped to his waist and softened the sharp edges of the quiver and bow attached to his back by a strip of healthy brown leather. If one looked closer, the sight of bloodstained bandages would peak out at you from around the edges of his immaculate clothes.

The Ottoman Empire turned to face the youthful boy, white mask obscuring his face from view as his elaborately decorated and layered white and red robes did the same with his body. Nothing was visible that could tell you what the man looked like beneath the outfit or whether he too was injured, but when he walked over to the pile of pillows you knew were for him considering the quality of them as compared to the others the Empire was unable to hide a pronounced limp. He sighed, staring down at the other. "We are both aware of how this war will end. That is why I have brought you here."

"At the cost of two more of your ships, ve~" The brunette chirped, a sharp, slightly manic grin on his face and bright amber eyes dancing with a victorious light. "You really are _sciocco_, Ottoman, wasting so many of your men when a letter with a messenger would have worked just as well."

"I thought it would be better to come fetch you myself. I don't need another messenger's head returned to me, _velet_." The older nation's voice was cold, and the two of them stared each other down, Ottoman's mask's grin mocking as Veneziano's was deranged.

The boy moved first. Swiftly pulling out his knife, Venezia feinted do his left and then spun under the robed man's answering scimitar swing, which would have decapitated him had he been any slower, and was about to stab the older man in the side when he was blocked by another, shorter dagger with a jagged edge. The man was more than easily able to shove the boy against the edge of the table, looming over him. Though a bit winded from the force of the slam, the small brunette refused to go down that easily. Using another feint he made to stab the Ottoman Empire, but it was only a distraction as he hooked his right foot around the other's calves, tripping him up as he tried dodging the knife. The unexpected obstacle sent the tall man crashing to the floor. Venezia pounced on him, digging the edge of his dagger into the man's throat. "Noisy little upstart," he hissed.

"From you that is a compliment, _Roma torunu_."

Snarling, the boy was just about to draw his blade along the Turk's throat, slitting it and ending this whole farce of a meeting, when suddenly he was the one pined to the floor with a blade being pressed into his chest. Venice's dagger was still at Ottoman's throat, but in the shift he had sliced through the older nation's 'hood', revealing a thin metal circlet wrapped around the older nation's throat. "Sneaky trick," he snorted derisively, though there was both a tinge of respect and worry in his eyes.

"Is your rage out of your system, _velet_?" The man asked, distate and exasperation quite blatant in his voice, but otherwise unaffected by the whole exchange. When the small Italian nodded, Ottoman warily sat back on his heels and allowed the boy to push himself to his knees before standing himself. "As I was saying, we know how the war will end, little one," He continued, settling down in his pile of pillows and gesturing for the other to join him. "You fight bravely, but we are both wasting men and resources, and you need my trade anyway. Since I'm to win, I wa—"

"_Vaffanculo_! There's no guarantee you'll win, _vecchio schifoso_!" Venice snapped, plopping down on his own assortment of cushions and blankets and scowling at the Empire. "Just because you've been—"

"Stop, stop, we are not here for violence and arguments," Ottoman reasoned, gesturing for the brunette boy to calm down and take a few berries from the dish sitting on the desk between them. "This is different from the skirmishes we've had in the past. This ia a war, and delicacy is needed."

"I'm not an idiot, Turk. I have seen more war than you. That doesn't mean the right of conjecture, ve," Venice retorted, glaring suspiciously at the rich, dark berries. He had no reason to trust the man's food so carelessly. "You eat one."

"_Nedir_?" Ottoman's voice was a soft mixture of confusion and surprise at the statement.

"You want me to eat anything you give me, you take the first bite," Venice reasoned. The Italian had read, heard of, and witnessed enough poisonings by food, especially fruits, to never trust anything not prepared by his own hands at first glance

"Such a suspicious boy you are!" The robed man observed, his words practically dancing with amusement. "Your grandfather would be both proud and ashamed, he's taught you so well!" Ignoring the boy's snarled "_Stai zitto!_", he reached across the desk and picked up two berries, careful not to squeeze too tight and burst the delicate skin. Then, with absolutely no hesitation, he pulled his hood and mask from his face, revealing hair the color of rich, fertile dirt, skin darkly tanned from both natural pigmentation as well as the harsh sun, and rugged features of a man one wouldn't wish to meet under less fortunate circumstances. Dark, intense eyes that Venice almost recognized stared down at him in good humor, and then the Empire—an existance technically younger than the ten-year-old boy before him but physically aged so much faster—popped the two small fruits into his mouth, crushed them between his molars, and swallowed the juice and remaining pulp. "Is that enough to calm your ire, Venice?" He asked, face twisted up in what was the mocking mask of an appeasing smile.

Venice would have gladly preferred to continue staring at the white mask again. "_Sì, sì_," he chirped dismissively, pushing himself up onto his shins to better reach the berries himself. "It doesn't hurt to be wary in times like this though, ve~" After the first taste of the intensely sweet juice caressed his tongue, a genuine look of childish enjoyment came to his small, round face and he swiftly swallowed three more of the berries. "Ve, these are really good! Where did you get them?"

"I had them picked when I decided to hold a meeting between us." The man's coffee-brown eyes were half-hooded as his smile grew. "I'm surprised you haven't tasted them before, the plants are common in your lands as well as my own. Quite a beautiful plant, only grows about your height, actually. Dark green leaves and purple stems with the sweetest berries you'll taste… Quite popular with the children of my nation, so I'm glad you enjoy them as well. There is quite an interesting name for the plant in your language, if I remember correctly. Perhaps you know it by that name?"

"Really, ve? What is i—"

"You know, at the moment I can't think of what it is! Give me a moment, _lütfen_?" Ottoman laughed to himself as if amused by his own 'forgetfulness'. His gaze never left the form of the small boy, whose face was rapidly paling, mouth opening and shutting with no ridiculous noises coming out. A sudden crash seemed to break the dark-haired man from his attempts to 'recall' the plant's name, but a closer look revealed eyes darkened in sick amusement as Venice collapsed against the desk, knocking the dish to the floor. A sudden spasm sent the boy tumbling from the desk as well and Ottoman shook his head, smirking. "Such an eager little one, you really do like them!" Swiftly picking up a handful of the sweet treats, the new Empire glided over to where the Republic was sprawled helplessly amidst the large pillows, occasionally hunching up and twisting about in an uncontrollable twitch and thrash. He reached down and picked the boy up by the collar of his rapidly staining white tunic, holding a berry to his unresponsive lips. "Here then, have some more!" Ottoman's cheerful smile and words were followed by him pushing every black fruit, at least a dozen altogether, into that voiceless mouth and down his throat to his stomach. "Ah, I remember now! Isn't that fantastic?"

All Venice could do was cough weakly, black juice trailing over his trembling bottom lip and down an expanse of paper-thin, unnaturally white skin to leave ink-like stains on his soiled tunic, mixing with the blood now blooming on the white canvas. His body was wracked with spasms and, had there been a floor to support him the youth would be curled in on himself, struggling against the electricity frying his very nerves. Ottoman tutted and scooped the boy up properly against his chest, wiping the liquid from the Italian's chin and taking sick delight in the purple stain left behind.

"Oh, what's wrong, _ufaklık_?" Ottoman asked in a convincingly fake worried manner, face twisted up in such an overexaggerated expression of concern his true amusement was all the more obvious. "You were so expressive earlier, sharing your opinion so strongly! Then again, you ate many more berries than I had expected~" Chuckling lightly, the brunette shifted his grip so he could kneel down and pick up another of the deadly fruit without losing his grip on the agonized boy. "This, young Venice, is the fruit of the belladonna plant. Clever, isn't it?" He continued, relishing in the horror dawning in hazy amber eyes. "Adults can survive eating up to twenty of these berries without the interference of a healer, but children…children will die after eating as little as a single berry."

The Empire paused for a moment, as if wanting a dramatic reaction to his statement. But when the Venetian didn't much react, he almost pouted. "Yes yes, you're a nation, so you won't die. But you're going to wish you were dead long before the toxins are out of your system." As he spoke, the Turk felt more of that amusement thrum in his chest, grinning down at the nation wrapped up in his arms. "It will not be pleasant, nor will it be swift. You're going to go through a normal human's death at least ten times before your system flushes the toxin out. But if you give me what I want, I can save you from that torture. All I ask for are Shkodra, Euboea, and Lemnos."

It was a sign of how badly the toxin was already affecting him when all Venice could do in retaliation was a weak "fuck you" spat out in such a way that it visibly hurt the boy to force the words out. When he opened his mouth to continue, all that came out was a croak quickly followed by several weak coughs and a shudder.

"Sılly boy, you fight a losing battle." There was no more amusement coloring the man's words now. Stepping around his small table, the tall man reached down and picked up a slightly steaming ceramic cup resting on the floor by where he would have been sitting before this. It was rather obvious that the cup had been set there to keep it from being knocked over once Venice first felt the effects of belladonna poisoning. "You didn't even want this war between us, remember? You need my trade to keep your city as rich as it is now. That fool of a pope controlling your elder brother was the one who pushed for it, not your people. Why are you so stubborn about coming to peace?" He asked curiously, staring down at the wheezing boy still thrashing about in his arms. He didn't wait for an answer, instead using a finger to caress the boy's cheek. "Are you not meant to be the proud little Republic of Venice, always standing on your own? You're taking orders from a boy who was handed his lands on a silver platter after your grandfather was murdered. He didn't work like we had to to get our standings, he leeched off the death of a family member. He has betrayed you in the past, lived in luxury while you and your people suffered under the hands of others, and even turned you away when you were suffering from the Black Death, but you're still taking stock in his words? Pathetic."

The almost gentle ministrations that Venice had been secretly taking some comfort in ended abruptly as Ottoman carelessly released him, dropping him to the stone floor close enough to the plush cushions for his painful landing being less than accidental. Had his voice not been robbed from him, the Italian would have cried out, tears already forming in his eyes. "You know this is the best idea for the both of us," Venice dimly heard Ottoman continue past the ringing in his ears and the rushes of snapping fire and crackling electricity tearing through his nerves. The words, however, were starting to blur together as the poison roared in victory against his coherent mind. "I know that you understand that too, even with that dazed look on your face. Do you want your people to suffer and starve once my trade is gone and I keep you away from the lands you get your goods from? Losing territory is painful, but I am considerate to those under my rule. I am not unnecessarily cruel, your citizens will be treated kindly, left to their own devices so long as they do not go against me. Oh, now you look so confused, little Venice~ Do you really not understand?" The older Empire lamented, starting to become amused again. He knelt down, wove his fingers into strands of copper curls and, after scoffing over how clean and soft the boy's hair was, jerked him up from the floor. That harsh grip had Venice's neck arching him back and back until unfocused, hazy amber eyes were staring into twinkling brown. "The poison really does flow quickly in children. I'll say this again, hopefully that slow little mind of yours will understand this time: Give me Shkodra, Euboea, and Lemnos, and I will cure you. If you don't, you will be stuck like this for days, maybe weeks. If you can't speak, then blink once for yes, twice for no."

A few moments' tense silence hung between the two of them. Venice visibly attempted dragging his coherence back together and figure out what was the significance of Ottoman's request. A particularly painful stab of pain in his abdomen sent every muscle in his body screaming and twisting into tight knots and his work was quickly for naught. His eyes clenched shut against the onslaught of pain jolting his system, and when he finally managed to pry them open he heard a cheerfully deep laugh that sound vaguely familiar but he couldn't figure out why. Feeling a jolt of shock, Venice tried to blink again, but it was too late.

"_İyi_!" Ottoman rumbled, sounding pleased. He smoothly rolled the limp boy onto his back, tugged him into a sitting position, placed the ceramic cup to the boy's lips and poured the yellow concoction down his throat. The bitter liquid splashed on a pale tongue and the awful taste revived the near comatose-boy. Hazy eyes flew open in a rush and two thin hands latched onto Ottoman's robes, whether trying to pull himself closer or shove the older man away impossible to tell as he thrashed around, trying to spit the nasty drink out. Calmly keeping the cup in place, first the empire dumped the rest of that foul concoction into the boy's mouth, despite flailing limbs tearing and slamming against his torso and arms. Then, he clamped his hand over the Italian's lips in a steel grip, keeping them shut and also blocking his nose. "Swallow it," he ordered, tone harsh. As soon as a slim throat strained and finally forced the drink down into his rebelling stomach, Ottoman swiftly retreated, expression one of mild interest as the small child fell to the floor again, convulsed, and rolled to one side just in time to keep from choking on his own vomit. The older Empire strode around the growing pile of expelled vinegar, crushed mustard seeds, and black sludge, picked up his mask and placed it on his face, becoming the mocking-faced figure of the true Ottoman Empire. "_Yeniçeri_!" He snapped, affixing his turban to his head and straightening out his robes.

Two men marched into the room, armed with long yatağan and large bows, wearing dark green simple trousers and a red and green embroidered vest over a white tunic with a large headdress. Once they stopped at a respectable distance from the nation, he turned away and waved dismissively at the shuddering but otherwise lifeless boy on the floor, collapsed in a rancid pile of vomit and stomach acid. With a curt nod both soldiers stepped over in unison and dragged the boy to his feet, supporting him by his upper arms but otherwise letting him hang between them like a rag doll. Ottoman didn't need to turn to see that his wordless order had been followed. "Take him back to his ship and tell his sailors that he needs to be kept warm for the next few days, fed almonds and coffee, and, if necessary, forced to throw up until the poison is fully out of his system. On your way out, send one of the _kul_ in here to clean this mess."

With another voiceless nod of acceptance, the slaves turned and dragged the Venetian boy away, towards the door. Before they actually exited the room, two heavily dilated, unfocused brown eyes cracked open just in time to see a white blur dash by. "Sadik, what do you think you're doing?!" A childishly high, irritated voice demanded, sounding a bit whiny to Venice's ears. Head lolling once, twice, and finally back far enough for him to see over his shoulder, the Republic gazed lifelessly at Greece, the small nation that had fought at his side several times throughout the war in attempts to 'free himself' from at least some of the older Empire's influence, as the older brunette glared at Ottoman. "You can't call other nations here, this is my house! And you're getting my stuff filthy!"

Ah. So even Greece was using him, just like everyone else, Venice thought to himself, continuing to watch as best he could as the small brunette frowned at the mess of vomit, broken ceramic, and small fruit scattered in the middle of the room. But, spotting one of the berries near his foot temporarily wiped away his frustrated scowl into a more curious look as he picked it up and examined it. "Hey, Sadik, what is this? Can I eat it?"

"_Hayır_." The berry was slapped from Greece's hand and then the Greek boy was gathered up into Ottoman's arms and rested on his hip. "You can't eat them, they're poisonous and you'll get sick."

"Then why are they here?" He asked suspiciously, gaze sweeping over the room. For an instant, brown eyes locked onto amber and a look of understanding came to Greece's face. Then it was carefully sculpted into a look of indifference, and try as he might Venice couldn't spy a single look of sympathy, worry…nothing. Greece turned away and looked back at Ottoman, who had looked between the two of them with a vague air of curiosity. "If you're going to do _σκατά_ like that, do it in your own house next time," the boy snapped. His ire visibly grew as the Ottoman Empire started laughing.

The two continued to 'argue', in the loosest sense of the word, and the small Venice was 'escorted' from the room. Losing what strength he had left, Venice's head hung down again, chin thumping gently against his collarbone. That action finally sent his once-white beret falling to the floor with a weak sigh. The pure whiteness of Greece's robes, despite the war he was still technically involved in, had burnt itself into the boy's retinas. How was it that Greece seemed so untouched by all of this, when he was left in this kind of state? A glimpse of his own blood and vomit-splattered tunic called up resentment, rage, and such an icy stab of jealousy and utter loathing that Venice couldn't hold in the tears that welled in his eyes. The feelings rampaged through his mind and roiled in the depths of his stomach so savagely that his world went black as he threw up once again.

* * *

During the next day's negotiations, directed by the Ottomano Empire and his sultan Mehmed II, the nation representing the Republic of Venice, and all of Northern Italy, was absent. There was little fuss when the Venetians were told they were to give up three major territories as well as pay a tribute of 10,000 ducat in order to continue trading in the Black Sea region. Greece just sat to the side and watched the proceedings without a sound, not a single glance over to the Venetian side or the empty chair meant for his so-called 'ally'.

This time, the win went to Ottoman, and the masked nation was pleased.


End file.
